scotengweek - Tumblr blog

scotengweek · 1 year

Text

The Restless

For day five of ScotEng week!

Horror // betrayal, ghost, forgotten // “Stay here.”

[This here was inspired by my mad chase across the grassland as something chased me in the night some years ago now in Hoy. You can find more informations on bothies, a cost-free shelter offered across Scotland, and their history here. This is my most esoteric entry by far. Enjoy! ]

-------

The camper is driving away.

Arthur is running as fast as his legs can take it, feet punching the ground and slipping on gravel in a mad dash to safety. He catches himself when he trips and pushes forward, the burn of his torn hands muted against the burn in his lungs as he struggles to catch his breath. His mind is blank. He does not let himself feel the terror biting at his heels in any conscious way, running on instinct and adrenaline. He yells after them, words or maybe a shapeless howl, begging against hope that the camper will stop, that it will turn, brakes squealing, to let him on. To wait for him. Some small part of him had thought that they would wait regardless of what he said. If I am not back in fifteen minutes, go. It had been the right thing to say. The only thing to say. They had all been afraid and still, bodies going into different stages of shock. Arthur had helped the rest of his friends load an unconscious Francis onto the backseat and offered to be the one to go looking for Alfred because it had been the right thing to say and do. And he had made them promise that they would go without him because he thought, he had truly and honestly thought—

It had only taken him ten minutes. He had gone searching and came back in ten minutes, not fifteen, because he had found Alfred’s torch thrown to the side and correctly assumed that he’d made it back to camp. Ten minutes.

The camper had already taken off in a cloud of dust, growing smaller in the distance, fading into the dark.

When he trips again his knees take the brunt and his thighs go numb. He thinks that he should scream, shout after the friends leaving him behind but there is not an ounce of air left in him, all of it burnt up in his lungs. The inertia of the fall knocks him on his front and some childish instinct has him tuck his hands into fists, so the ground rips up his forearms instead. It hurts less. It should not be possible from this distance, but he thinks he can see Francis, awake, banging on the back window. He would not have left Arthur behind. Francis would have made them wait. Francis would have pulled him into the van by the elbows and let Arthur catch his breath against his chest.

Arthur presses his forehead to the ground and chokes on a sob.

They should have known something was wrong when they arrived in the early afternoon to find the roads unkempt, not a soul for miles. They had only known to look for the bothy in the first place because they had overheard a local on the ferry whispering about the maintenance work it had needed to bring the roof down without collapsing the walls. The surrounding fields were used for cattle and it was a liability, having a structure that could come down at any moment and had no standing fence to keep the perimeter clear. All they had taken away from that overhead conversation had been clear skies and empty fields; cliffs and white sands and even ground for wild camping. What they should have heard was ‘danger’.

It had been beautiful at first. The flatlands of the isle gave way to the open cliffsides and the endless blue of the ocean and the north-eastern coast. They pitched their tents by the surviving stone wall, where they would be sheltered by the wind, and took their gas stoves and flasks to the waterfront. Arthur had thought then that it would be one of the dearest memories, their laughter that evening by the sea watching the sun set.

The whiskey had left him restless though and while the others crashed in shared tents and sleeping bags he had paced the perimeter of the ruins. The night was so clear this far north, so close to a perpetual twilight, that he had been able to navigate in the dark without a torch. He’d found smooth river stones piled into a miniature cairn some meters away from camp. Following the outcrop that gave way to the coast he’d found old fire pits and a witch stone, placed carefully by the edge like its owner had found it and left it there, intending to return. Arthur had not thought much of it and feeling something like kismet had rolled the stone between his fingers before looking through the gap; first at the ocean, then the grasslands.

It was through the stone that he had first seen it.

With a frightened gasp he had wrenched the stone away from his eye, blinking wildly and reaching clumsily for his phone. In truth, he had not needed any light to see that there had been nothing there. No looming figure, dark against the faint blue-grey of the skyline. Heart racing and clutching his stone, Arthur had hurried back to camp, looking over his shoulder with every flutter of birds’ wings in the brush and the faraway bleating of sheep. He had felt safe laying down to sleep next to Francis, though, and foolish when he’d retold the story the next morning over breakfast.

Then he found the bones. Vertebrae too large to belong to sheep, cluttering a freshly dug trench.

He had called out to the others, voice tight with alarm, but they had laughed it up. Alfred had kicked one of the bones carelessly and brushed fresh dirt onto the pile to cover them, so they would be out of sight. He’d seen the like in Texas, he’d said, dismissive and care-free. It could be a cow, a horse. And maybe he had been right, Arthur wouldn’t know, but a chilling suspicion had begun to dawn in the back of his mind. The ground had been undisturbed the night before.

They were not alone. And they were being watched.

He should have forced the issue instead of biting his tongue. He should have ruined the fucking trip. Ripped the tents with his pocket knife if that was what it took. They should have left before nightfall.

Shaking with adrenaline, Arthur slaps his hands against his mouth and forces himself to breathe through his nose. He shifts on his bruised knees and looks around wildly, looking for somewhere to hide. Keeping an eye for him and then he spots him. A shadow between shadows moving pitilessly closer at an even pace. Arthur can barely hear the howling wind over the pounding of his heart but he blinks the tears away and thinks fast. There is the road ahead, endless and exposed. He can’t outrun the night; his lungs will give out before he makes another mile. If he runs now, he will disturb the gravel and call attention to himself. For now, at least he is crouched down, holding himself as tight as he can to make himself seem small. From a distance he might be just small enough to be overlooked. Judging by the direction the shadow moves, he might just walk past him. God, if only he would walk past him, Arthur could make a run for the coastline. He could find a crevice between the weathered walls and sea-washed boulders until the sun rose. In the light of day he could find his phone, still plugged into its power bank back at camp. He could call for help. Walk up the road until he finds service and dial every number in his directory, dial emergency services. He will not be made a ghost haunting the friends that left him for dead. He will not be remembered for being forgotten. Arthur wants to live.

The shadow pauses, its profile looking out towards the winding road, and for a soaring moment Arthur is sure that it will turn and go. Everyone else is gone, Francis who he had attacked. Alfred who he had lured away in an ill-advised fit of courage. They are all gone. There is no reason for it to suspect that Arthur has been left behind.

The shadow turns its head and although Arthur cannot see his eyes he simply knows.

It can see him.

Arthur scrambles up to his feet and stumbles, blind with panic, until he can find his footing. Pain shoots through every muscle and joint as he tries to outrun the inevitable. In his desperation he turns towards the bothy, some animal sense in him promising him safety if only he can get behind the stone walls. Clearing the distance takes an inhuman amount of effort but he makes it, lurching past the empty door frame and reaching unseeing for something to block the entrance. There isn’t even a door, the wood long-rotted, but whatever Arthur can do to earn himself another heartbeat he will try. His hand closes around the back of a wooden chair and using the inertia of his failing body he tosses it behind him. Arthur throws his back against the far wall of the small cabin and watches the wood bounce on the threshold. His lungs wheeze as he pants widely, afraid to blink for too long.

Earlier in the night they had set up lanterns on the cabin’s walls, where the roof would have been thatched onto the structure once. It had dispelled the shadows then and made them feel deceptively safe so long as they stayed within the pools of light. All they do is cast long shadows now as Arthur waits, terrified, for the looming figure to come.

When it does, it kicks the chair across the room, clearing the threshold and stepping through unhurriedly. Arthur’s finger’s scratch the walls and low shelves behind him, searching desperately for something to use against the hulking shadow he is finally close enough to see.

He is a man, or must have been, once, dressed in a stained undershirt and muddy trousers. A boned mask obscures his features, a savage mimicry of a wolf or bear that tilts to the side as the man seems to consider him. If he came any closer the light might slip into the eye sockets of his mask but as it is all Arthur can see of them are the pooled shadows of an eyeless skull peering meaningly from between strands of unkempt hair. He is easily twice Arthur’s size in padded muscle alone and towers above him in height.

Arthur’s fingers find a thin shard of rock worked loose from the wall behind him and he holds onto it tight despite the pain. He blinks away the black spots that fill his vision.

“Why?” He demands, blinking away the black spots that swirl in his vision.

“Who are you? Why– what do you want?”

The man does not answer. He takes a step forward.

Arthur could chance him coming closer but a sudden fury bubbles in his chest at the thought of this hulking man crowing him. He lunges at him, seemingly managing to catch him by surprise enough that he gets a good hit in with his shoulder. The shard in his hand splits in two under the strain of his grip alone so Arthur throws it blindly hoping one of the pieces will find the man’s eye behind his mask. The stranger recovers quickly though, bending over with a grunt and reaching around Arthur to get him in a corded grip. With his hands now free, however, Arthur can claw at him, looking for an opportunity to jab an elbow against his neck or face. When the man manages to catch his arms, he kicks. When he is pushed against the wall, he cranes his head and bites down. He is savage with it and in a triumphant moment earns a howl of pain when his teeth pierce the man’s skin. Blood floods his mouth however and he chokes, spitting the metallic taste and battling against the nausea that conjures hot bile up his throat. He is still spitting when the man regains the upper hand and lets go of one of his arms to grab a solid grip of his hair by the roots instead.

All Arthur knows after that is a sharp pain at the back of his head and then, nothing.

Nothing at all.

He wakes up curled up on his side, his cheek pressed down on a rough-hewn mattress that smells like peat. His head throbs but when he tries to reach up to his nape he finds that they are caught on a snare. The rope is not tight enough to grind down on his bones but it keeps his wrists crossed and anchored to the bed frame. He has to crane his head back to find where it’s been strapped and nailed down to the wood. Barely awake, he does not have the wherewithal to be frightened yet but when something grips his ankle his wits snap back into attention.

His first instinct is to start kicking but his legs are pulled out harshly and pinned. There is not enough give to the rope around his wrists to accommodate him being yanked down so his shoulders are pulled forward, his field of vision obscured by his own forearms. The mattress shifts with the man’s weight and Arthur really panics then, bucking his hips up and twisting. He only stops when strong hands bracket his hips. It is the shock, at first, and then the knees that dig in firmly into the insides of his thighs, keeping him still as the man leans over him to grab wrists in a single hand.

His heart is in his throat, mind racing with a million possibilities. He tries to pull his arms down to at least be able to look at the man on top of him but even his best effort is pointless. He had known as soon as he had seen him that he’d ne outweighed and outmatched but the reality of that body on his blinds him to reason. Arthur curses and bites back the urge to scream, only settling down when the man above him growls angrily and pins his turned face into the mattress with the weight of his forearm. He has gotten wise to the sharpness of Arthur’s teeth, it seems.

Angry tears smear into his temple and the stranger’s dirt-streaked skin as Arthur pants to keep his emotion at bay. He will not cry, he will not beg. He bites his lips and swallows the hitch in his breath, unwilling to give up the last torn shred of his pride. There is nothing Arthur needs to make peace with except himself so on and on, he curses until his voice gives out, too hoarse to continue. It is only then that the weight above him shifts, like the man crouched above him was only waiting for Arthur to tire himself out. He reaches for something Arthur cannot see, still blinded by his own arms, and the only weakness he allows himself is turning his face against his shoulder, bracing for whatever may come.

All that happens is that something cold is pressed onto his palms.

He flinches, startled and hisses when his skin begins to burn but the man seems to have had enough. He hushes him harshly and squeezes his wrists to keep him still before dabbing roughly at the scrapes on his palms. Once he is seemingly satisfied with the work he’s done he moves to clean Arthur’s forearms next.

It is an action so absurd that Arthur’s is shocked to stillness. He lets his arms be raised and lowered without fighting and drops his head back to catch a sight of the bed frame once more, wondering if he is still asleep or half-dead already and hallucinating as he goes. The sharp scent of herbs bites at his nose and his fingers curl when some kind of salve is slathered on his palms.

The man slips down his body when he is done, clumsy and heavy, but for now not trying to hurt him. He goes as far as to ease his weight of Arthur when he winces and for now seems to trust that Arthur will not try to knee him when he shifts his knees off his thighs. It is enough leeway for Arthur to feel like he can risk provoking his temper so he pulls himself back up the mattress, using the rope to hoist himself back. He is stopped from going too far when the man grabs a hold of his ankle again like a warning but he is able to sit up at least and finally regain his sight.

Absurdly, the first thing he thinks is that the man’s eyes are the same shade of green as his.

His shoulder is clean and wrapped. Arthur does not know whether the mark of his teeth will scar but he imagines it might, for a while at least. Good. Good, Arthur hopes it does. He can see some bruising starting to form around the area. He is wearing a different undershirt, this one looser on his frame, but the same soot-stained trousers as he had been earlier. His feet, Like Arthur’s now, are bare. More importantly though, so is his face. He has the same stern features that Arthur has seen on the men who work the docks and pubs of the northernmost isles. It should not be right that he looks like them, or they like him, but the truth is that Arthur should not be surprised. He has known violence and fear at the hands of so many men who looked like this: ordinary, handsome even. It is almost disappointing that this is how it will end. It is a fucking waste.

The man does not hold his gaze for long, seeming more concerned with the hem of Arthur’s trousers. He does not let Arthur pull his legs away but does not pull them straight and splayed either. He lets Arthur keep his legs slightly bent while he rolls up the fabric up to his knees. Arthur is too tired to feel demeaned. It hurts to have the material pried out from the grooves in his torn knees and he can’t help flinching again. This time, the man only presses his thumb to the joint of his knee, like he means to hold him steady.

Arthur is exhausted. He is shaking with crashing adrenaline and his ears are ringing from how hard he is clenching his jaw. Maybe from how hard the man bashed his head, as well. That the same man is now carefully cleaning his knees is so absurd that he feels hysterical laughter bubble up in his chest, breathy and hoarse. The man only looks up briefly before resuming his task. When he is done, he stands from the bed and reaches immediately for the mask that Arthur can see now has been sitting on a low table all this time.

Arthur speaks without meaning to. “Why?”

The man pauses, half-turned. He is holding the mask against his face with one hand, the other reaching back to tie the leather tongs that hold it in place. Looking at him now, golden in the half light, Arthur realises that there is a small fire lit in an iron stove across the room and gas lamps sitting in every corner of the room.

“What is the point?” He pulls his legs closer to his chest; his thighs are starting to burn from the night’s exertion. He means the man’s touch on his skin and the care for his wounds. Minor, for all that there might be in store for him.

The man does not answer. He adjusts his mask and when he turns to face Arthur it’s with the same animal blankness he had exuded as he cornered him in the bothy.

Has it been hours? A day? Arthur suspects the former. He is not hungry, only thirsty.

The man goes around the bed to approach him this time rather than climbing in the mattress the way Arthur had expected he would. He crouches by him, so large that it is only in this way that they are finally at eye level. Arthur holds his eyes, obscured by the deep set cavities of the skull, and holds his ground. He does not so much as flinch then the man’s hand comes up to touch his face, tracing his jaw with a calloused knuckle. He does not tilt his head, just follows the natural curvature of the bone towards his chin. Arthur is so focused on the slow drag of the caress that he does not notice the way the man’s breathing shifts, slowing down into deep, controlled breaths that fill his diaphragm with air. A deep, rumbling voice hums a singular note before he speaks, the words barely given shape behind the bone which distorts them further. It is not Gaelic or Scots of any kind that Arthur has heard but they ring into his ears like tide; rhythmic and familiar.

Arthur is not aware of the way his defiant gaze softens, only of the way the pain at the back of his head seems to melt away, leaving only a light, tired throb behind. He feels his muscles yield to exhaustion and the pull of those dark, sightless eyes. Something hot and consuming pools in the pit of his stomach.

When he loses consciousness this time it is not sudden, but gradual. His head is cradled kindly and his body is laid out.

Dawn crests, unseen, and Arthur dreams of cliffs and the howling winds of Orkney, a voice hidden in their midst.

They are told that Arthur drowned. Not one of them believes it.

After a thoughtless drive across the island to flee the horrors of the night, Francis had managed to scream sense back into them. With a fraction of diesel left in the tank, however, making the drive back to camp had been impossible. They’d had to wait until the morning after contacting the ferry operator on an emergency radio left by the docks. The search for Arthur had been fruitless. They returned to the mainland with Arthur’s phone still hooked to a power bank and missing a friend. Francis didn’t look away from the island once as they were escorted away. He also has not spoken a word to a single one of them since.

The official reports will read like a common tragedy: too little sleep and too much to drink, a prank or fight gone awry with one young man left behind. With Arthur’s phone found abandoned by the rest of his things and Gil’s phone missing, the theory had been born that he must have climbed onto a cliff edge trying to find reception and had fallen to his death, body lost to the ocean. The ferry operator, some local workmen who had joined in on the search,and the women who had leveled them with pity and censure on their return deflected their questions and refused them help in proving that there had been someone else there; a man. It is some time before the nightmares fade and the guilt settles into something they can live with. Arthur is brought up rarely and only as a memory.

Until one day, the ferry dispatch on the mainland receives a mayday signal from an emergency radio long in disuse.

#day 5 #from the creator’s tags:#this is going up un-betad so it might be subject to revisions before i cross-post it to ao3 #and was born of a slasher au i had in the works some months ago #leave me your thoughts and any questions you might have if you fancy!#is alasdair human? it depends on what your definition of human is

32 notes · View notes

scotengweek · 1 year

Text

SCOTENG WEEK - day 6 (historical)

i just wanted to draw teen ali and little artie

#day 6 #scoteng week 2023

64 notes · View notes

scotengweek · 1 year

Text

SCOTENG WEEK - day 5 (horror)

honestly i just wanted to draw some gore... anyway this piece is about love and devotion <3

#day 5 #scoteng week 2023 #art #cw gore

48 notes · View notes

scotengweek · 1 year

Text

The Glasgow Scale

For day three of ScotEng week!

Tragedy // loss, strangers, cigarettes // “We always see it too late.”

[Two strangers meet in the waiting room of the A&E. cw assumed/referenced suicide and medical settings.

Here is some more information about the Glasgow Coma Scale]

-------

The back of Arthur’s neck feels clammy.

He is not sure how his hands feel other than numb. Most of him is, all but for the way his skin feels stretched out and tight over the canvas of his bones. Someone had told him once that shock felt like falling feet first into freezing water; a seizing of the body and a sensation like asphyxia. Arthur can breathe though, so he does. In and out, he is, if anything, overly aware of the rise and fall of his chest. His lungs are the only real part of him left.

The waiting area hums with the quiet chatter, a steady flow of patients and staff coming and going in the background. Phones ring at intervals, voices over the intercom drone in codes, and the linoleum floors betray the material of people’s shoes. Every so often a voice is raised or a siren wails but in the end it is all drowned out into white noise. Arthur makes no effort to move or listen, caught listless and alone and beyond any help.

Time dilates; he isn’t sure how long it has been when a man sits next to him. Arthur barely notices him there until their arms brush and the stranger speaks.

“Do you have a filter?”

Arthur does, and slowly, blinking away the sore dryness in his eyes, he comes back to himself. Wordlessly he reaches into the inner lining of his coat and pulls out a beaten pack of filter tips. The man takes it and the first thing Arthur really notices about him are his hands. The second are his shoes.

A lone woman sits across from them, empty seats at either side of her, one of them a small table-width apart. It does not occur to Arthur that the stranger could have sat there instead of cramming himself into the narrow joint seat to Arthur’s left. He is broad all over and deceptively thick around the knuckles for how carefully he handles the rolling paper and tobacco between his fingers. There is a faint residue of ink in the whorls of his fingerprints, like he’s been booked although you would not think so by the look of him, not at first glance. The brogues on his feet are worn-in but freshly polished and the wool of his kilt is pressed into perfect pleats. His shirt is the only thing that looks worse for wear with the sleeves shoved up his forearms instead of folded and stained with something that soaked in and dried out in blotchy patterns. Whiskey, maybe, or rum; even vaguely concussed still Arthur can smell it on him. Stale alcohol and sweat.

His thoughts blur again and he feels vaguely nauseous. The thought that he might throw up is a muted concern but his face feels hot. He shuts his eyes against the sudden inertia he feels becoming aware of how stiffly he is holding his body. He should find a bathroom and wash his face. He should gulp down a bottle of water even if he cannot keep it down.

Something knocks gently against his arm and even if the nausea does not abate the feeling like freefall does for long enough that he can turn his head without feeling dizzy. His eyes fall on a hand-rolled cigarette and a beaten carton of filters, held towards him between two fingers.

“For the filter,” the stranger explains.

Arthur takes it without thanking him and the next thing he knows they are standing in the cold, the light of a streetlight pooling under their feet. The hospital from a distance is only concrete and glass. The harsh fluorescent lights are blurred by a drizzle so light that it sits on the exposed skin of his wrists and on his cheekbones like mist. The stranger who chose to sit beside Arthur only looks at him from the corner of his eye and the rim of his eyelashes by turns, taciturn and unobtrusive.

“Alasdair.” He offers his name without a lead and promptly focused on the fag between his lips, cupping the flame of his lighter and breathing in the first drag like it’s water and he’s parched.

Arthur takes the lighter when it’s offered and fiddles with the flint for long enough that Alasdair reaches out to light his cigarette for him. He breathes in the smoke and lets it sit in his mouth long enough for Alasdair to step back before exhaling.

“Arthur.”

He sounds rough. On his next drag he tries to swallow the smoke and exhales in a coughing fit.

Alasdair waits it out, taking slow drags and letting the smoke slip from his lips and nose with practiced ease.

“You're not a smoker.” His voice is low and rolls deep with the tilt of his accent.

Arthur’s eyes water.

“No,” he agrees with one last hitch before his breathing settles.

He brings the filter back to his lips.

The cherry’s gone out. Alasdair relights the ashen tip and levels a quiet instruction. Slow and deep. When Arthur exhales it is good and steady despite the itch in his throat.

They smoke in silence until the minutes are ash on the ground and they toss the butt ends into a metal-grid bin.

“I’m trying to quit.”

It is an empty confession. It bears no weight on his opinion on the man or Arthur’s choices. Looking at him, though, Arthur can believe it.

He should say something. Thank you, at the least, but his mouth is wet and tastes like newspaper curling in the fireplace. His face and hands feel foreign and some part of him asks what the man standing with him sees; if he can tell that Arthur is only half-present, some part of him gone and lost in the halls of the hospital looming at their backs. Even now he cannot tell whether he is losing time and awareness of space again or if they have really been standing outside for as long as he feels they have. At least here he feels cold and he shivers with it the way only a living thing can.

Alasdair feels comfortable enough in his shirtsleeves and he is close again, only a pace away from Arthur. He reaches up to touch his own stubbled jaw with a knuckle.

“You have blood, here.” His eyes are very intent. Arthur can’t tell their colour in the half-light.

He reaches up to mirror Alasdair’s reach and feels for the spot in the dark. His hand comes away wet and lightly stained. There is not a lot of it. It must have dried in the hours he has spent sitting in the waiting room with no one to point it out to him. The rain and his fingers smear it away. The collar of his shirt must be stained.

“Who are you waiting for?”

It is not the kind of question you ask of a stranger.

“No one,” Arthur answers with the kind of honesty you spare a stranger. “He is dead.”

“Family?”

“My brother.”

Alasdair hums.

“You should go home.”

“I live in Kent.” Arthur blinks hard and tries to refocus his eyes when his vision mists over. He is not crying, it is only that his eyes are so very sore.

“That’s six hours by train,” Arthur explains like it means anything.

“Visiting, then?”

“Yeah.”

“He wasn’t expecting you.”

“No.” Arthur tries to remember what Rhys had said to him over the phone the last time they spoke. Whether he sounded angry or sad. He can’t recall, suddenly, and he thinks that will haunt him for the rest of his life. “No he wasn’t expecting me.”

“Do you need to make arrangements?”

Arthur shakes his head.

Dai left instructions.

Alasdair shifts his jaw like he is carefully considering his next words but in the end all he does is nod. “Ok.”

He looks like he wants another cigarette. Dai used to rub his thumb against his pointer finger whenever he got a craving, the same way Alasdair is doing now. Arthur wonders if this is the kind of thing the people who love you notice and see mirrored in strangers once you are gone. He thinks he will be seeing Dai again but only in these small gestures, done by strangers, and his chest feels hollow.

“I’m…” Alasdair glances away. “I need to get home. If you need somewhere to spend the night…” He leaves the thought unfinished and shakes his head absent-mindedly. He does not strike Arthur as someone used to uncertainty. ”You shouldn’t stay here.”

Arthur would have to be completely out of his mind to accept his offer and he is, so he does. “Ok.”

Arthur packed some clothes and a book into a rucksack before riding north. He had also dallied by the closet before leaving for the station, second-guessing whether he should bring his winter coat or a parka with him, knowing Scotland would be all rain and high winds. Now his clothes and his coat lie on the floor of Dai’s hallway, dropped carelessly after he let himself in with the spare set of keys his brother had left with him the last time he’d come to see him in Kent. All he has are his wallet and his brother’s denim jacket, snatched from the coat rack at the last possible second as he rushed as he rushed to catch up with the emergency team trying to stabilise his brother on the landing. It is fleece-lined and worn in, and it smells like coffee. Dai had been working as a barista. Arthur will have to call his workplace in the morning and let them know that he is not coming in to work.

Alasdair tells him to wait by the door and comes back some indeterminate amount of time later with a sheath of paper and a coat Arthur had not noticed on him. He nods towards the parking lot and Arthur follows after him, calm and dazed and feeling more awake now. It is not until they are sitting in Alasdair’s car, a mud-splattered Mazda, that he asks. “Who were you there for?”

Alasdair’s mirrors are set for someone else’s height. He has to twist his waist, elbow against the backrest of his seat, to back up from the narrow parking spot.

“My brother,” he says, and offers nothing more. Arthur looks at the blurring light through the passenger window and does not pry.

The drive through the city is quiet and winds down as they cross from well-lit streets into the stillness of Leith. Alasdair’s flat is a sandstone tenement with weathered walls. He parks a street away and lets Arthur climb up the stairs ahead of him, silent and steady. There is one bedroom and a bathtub built into the wall of the bathroom. The lightbulb in the living room is missing and there is a pile of folded laundry on the living room couch, some more hung to dry by the cold radiator. It does not smell like Alasdair smokes indoors and the kitchen is clean aside from the dishes stacked in the sink. Alasdair pours them both tea, dark and hot, despite the lateness of the hour and offers Arthur a pair of sweatpants from the laundry pile and the first shower. When Arthur comes out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, damp and red-eyed, he finds Alasdair sitting listless on the couch, staring at the ceiling like there is an answer in the empty socket and the light he hasn’t gotten around to replacing.

The couch is not wide enough to host a sleeping adult for the night and they are both too tired for pretense. Arthur takes the left side of Alasdair’s bed and falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, lulled by the breathing of the stranger beside him and the unassuming warmth of his body.

They sleep in past midday and wake up comfortable in each other’s space, aware that the other is awake but unwilling to leave the bed and its comforts. Alasdair sighs tiredly into his pillow; Arthur cannot see his face but they are so close that he can feel the way his body seizes, like he is bracing himself for the day or balancing on a knife’s edge. Men like Alasdair, Arthur has learnt, are deceptively strong. It makes them seem prone to anger and incapable of sorrow.

Pressing himself to Alasdair’s back is no more inappropriate than inviting a stranger into your bed in a daze of grief. They are past the discomfort of overt over-familiarity. The tip of Arthur’s nose is cold and fits neatly into the crook of his shoulder. Alasdair’s sobs are silent and bitten-back. He breathes through his nose like he is not used to crying and only seems to catch his breath when Arthur’s hand finds the soft curve of his stomach over the cotton of his shirt. Arthur holds him without judgment and takes comfort in his heartbeat as it slows and steadies to match his. He keeps holding him long after that.

There is no awkward pause when Alasdair finally slips free from his hold to sit up in bed. Arthur just shifts to join him and then sits across from him in the kitchen to share burnt toast and tea like they have known each other for longer than a night. The ink has washed off of Alasdair’s hands and Arthur’s feel warm wrapped around the ceramic of a kitschy mug. They drive to the hospital and Arthur listens from the corner of the room as the story of Alasdair’s family unfolds in raised voices and accusations. Curious eyes in now familiar shades of hazel fall on him but his presence goes unexplained. Alasdair stands at arm’s reach from him when the shouting is done and offers no apologies or justifications. Arthur does not expect them and simply keeps him company, waiting in the hallway while Alasdair makes his peace with a man who shares his nose and the set of his brow and might never wake again. They find coffee and food in the late afternoon, and idle by a park until Arthur rallies the wherewithal to walk up the street to his brother’s flat to face the aftermath of his loss. He does not trade in his brother’s jacket for his own despite the early morning chill when they are finally ready to leave, Arthur’s rucksack in tow; he’s warm enough with Alasdair’s jumper tucked under the denim.

On his third morning imposing Arthur offers to leave which Alasdair dismisses with a grunt and a half-cooked argument under his breath. After that, Arthur does not bring it up again and for the rest of the week, while he settles Dai’s affairs, he shares his bed and does his share of the work around the house despite Alasdair's coarse insistence that he doesn’t have to. Arthur does not try to argue and just carries the laundry into the bedroom rather than leaving it to pile up in the living room. He cooks them at least two square meals when he has a mind to and lets himself sink into Alasdair’s bed in the early afternoon when the grief bears on him so heavy that he feels like he’ll never be able to breathe normally again. Alasdair comes home early once and finds him like that. Wordlessly, he sits on the edge of the bed and only after Arthur shifts does he reach down to bury his fingers in his hair. Some evenings they watch movies, others they spend apart. Alasdair rolls cigarettes out of habit, to scratch the itch, and leaves them by the windowsill to grow stale.

Life carries on. Slowly, unremarkably. Arthur hides his smiles and is slow to laugh until something settles in him and he can think of Dai without feeling the ground sway beneath his feet. Alasdair’s brother wakes up in gradual starts and in a year’s time relearns the words he needs to credit himself for his brother’s ease. Arthur graduates and chases jobs and slots his favourite books into Alasdair’s shelves. Alasdair makes space for them and space for his clothes in the closet and keeps him close at night in the bed they share.

Life carries on.

#day 3 #scoteng week 2023 #fic #from the creator’s tags:#interesting fact you cannae smoke within 15 meters of a hospital in scotland as of 2022

36 notes · View notes

scotengweek · 1 year

Photo

for @scotengweek - day ¾ (cigarettes + longing). i could only find time to do something super rough but i wanted to contribute anyway ♥

#day 3 #from the creator’s tags!:#is he staring at scot with love or hatred in his eyes? longing to kiss him or punch him? it remains to be seen...#art

247 notes · View notes

scotengweek · 1 year

Text

SCOTENG WEEK - day 3 (tragedy) (THE RIGHT ONE THIS TIME)

when you have a heart to heart with the little brother youve been abusing and exploiting for all his life and then realize that actually maybe you fucked him up for good

#day 3 #from neon!

63 notes · View notes

scotengweek · 1 year

Text

SCOTENG WEEK - day 3 (romance)

i have to admit i couldnt think of much to draw for this one which sounds insane because "romance" is the broadest easiest possible theme you could get for characters you ship together ... so i thought. whats more romantic than a winter date

#day 3

89 notes · View notes

scotengweek · 1 year

Text

And just like that they became strangers and all that's left of what they had is the all-consuming pain of their loss and an ashtray filled with cigarette butts.

ScotEng week. Day 3. Tragedy.

#day 3 #creator’s tags:#platonic or romantic idk this is up for interpretation #all pictures are from unsplash i just put a filter over some and cropped them into a square shape #moodboard

32 notes · View notes

scotengweek · 1 year

Text

SCOTENG WEEK - day 2 (drama)

its hard to feel like you're enough for alistair when he refuses to say it 💔 i think alistair is one of the only people arthur would willingly humiliate himself for because theres nothing in this world he wants more than his approval 😚

#day 2 #art

63 notes · View notes

scotengweek · 1 year

Text

Copper

Day 2 of ScotEng week:

Drama // family, consequences, worth // “Do you really believe that?”

[What is it with the wedding themes in all of these prompts you might ask? The answer is ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I’m just happy to be writing again do not question my life choices’. This takes place in an AU where Arthur has been half in love with Alasdair all of his life. He runs off after introducing him to Francis and watching them fall in love. Francis doesn’t let go of him so easily and so he and Arthur stay in touch, but Alasdair hasn’t heard from Arthur in years. Alasdair and Francis are walking down the aisle in two days; Arthur loves them both and cannot fathom that they could love him back.

Ask me about the coins and the salt in the piss pot and I will tell you a wee bit about Scottish wedding traditions.]

-------

His eyes find Arthur across the room at every turn and he does not lie to himself. He is seeking him out of the corner of his eye, drawn to the sound of his voice and the familiar shape of him in a crowd. He keeps to himself, lingering near windows and walls, his back never turned to the door. Alasdair looks at him and sees negative space; sees five years into the past. He thinks that Arthur’s hair might be a little longer, his posture a little better. His clothes lived in but well-fitted. He looks well.

Alasdair should not be looking.

Just across from him, Francis looks happy; is happy. He looks beautiful backlit by the warm light of the faux sconces on the homely walls of the pub. And Arthur loves him, Alasdair knows he does. He would not be here, if he didn’t. Not when… He would not be here.

Someone (Sean, probably) has put a piss pot full of salt in Francis’ hands and he is making the round around the pub trading in kisses for copper. Francis’ friends from abroad throw in two pound coins and kiss him so hard that they nearly bowl Francis over. If he keeps his feet on the ground it is only because they hold him up, arms held firm at his waist, hands amiable and familiar on his body. Alasdair could no more resent the easy way Francis loves and is loved than he would his smiles or the sound of his laughter. There is something in him that aches though, watching now as he makes his way to Arthur to earn his due. Arthur’s tight lips quirk in what is almost a smile and he drops two pence into the pot. He turns his face when Francis leans in and Francis does not chase his mouth, content to press a lingering kiss to the soft swell of Arthur’s cheek like a brother.

Alasdair’s fingers itch to curl into a fist. He goes to find another pint instead.

At some point in the night half their party heads off down the street to the next pub over and the rest split ways. Francis does not try to coax Alasdair away but leaves him behind with a quick embrace and a whispered promise. Alasdair will not keep him to it and takes the damned piss pot to put aside. Fuck knows where Sean’s been off to; he hasn’t seen Daffyd all night. Alasdair should call him in the morning and ask why, why? Did Arthur say...?

Or he could ask Arthur himself, it seems.

He cuts a lonely figure, the sole person left behind, half-sitting on a table top with his hands held loosely between his thighs. There is no device in his presence here, no gambit or intent. This place felt like it was theirs once, back when Alasdair had first put down the anchor to rebuild the family business from the ground up. Every hour he had spent sanding the floors and thatching the sunken benches had been worth Arthur’s evenings spent pouring over ledgers and faded receipts. He never took a cent for any of it, shrugging off Alasdair’s offers coarsely and claiming ownership to nothing more than the black ink on the records that first fiscal year they broke even. Alasdair knows now that it was more than pride that kept Arthur one step removed but he struggles to follow the logic of his actions. He cannot guess at the storms that brew behind the green of Arthur’s eyes unless he puts them into words. All he knows is that for all that he is difficult Arthur is also honest. For a while he belonged to these rooms as much as the furniture, and so if anyone has the right to beg off from the revelry of a wedding that isn’t his and spend the night letting his eyes get lost in the woodgrain instead, it is him.

“You were right.” Arthur breaks the silence and Alasdair is caught short, unsure of what he means.

“The sconces,” he clarifies, and makes eye contact with Alasdair only briefly before looking away again. “It was worth wiring them. The room does not need any more light than this.”

Alasdair hums, and thinks back to the arguments that had very little heat at heart.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

Arthur shrugs.

“I don’t suppose it’s cold enough to warrant a fire.” He is thinking out loud and doing a fine job of ignoring Alasdair, eyes on the ash stains that frame the fire place.

So, Alasdair does what he’s always done best. He puts himself right where Arthur cannot ignore him.

Arthur keeps his weight resting on the table behind him but straightens up from his slump when Alasdair comes close enough. He looks at the enamel piss pot he is still holding by the handles first and then, finally, his face.

“I’m short on change,” he deadpans.

Alasdair huffs his amusement without smiling and sets it to the side. The salt and coins resettle with the movement, scratching the bottom of the pan.

“Will you stay?” Alasdair has never known how to keep from sounding angry when he speaks low like this.

Arthur opens his mouth to speak and he interrupts him before he can argue.

“For the wedding,” he clarifies, and thinks in numbers. Two nights and three days. Arthur must have arrived earlier in the day, and he will be staying the night. Alasdair does not know where he might be staying but he’ll have dropped his bags there, some spare clothing and formalwear, for the ceremony. Another pair of shoes.

Arthur looks at him silently, his expression blank but softened by the lax set of his lips. He nods, barely there but he nods, and Alasdair feels at one like he can breathe and like one of his ribs had popped out of place to dig painfully into the soft tissue of his lungs.

“There’s a spare room—”

“Upstairs.” Arthur finishes for him with finality and for the first time there is something like anger in his eyes. “Across from yours.”

What Arthur means and does not have to say outright is that it would be cruel at best to have him stay. Alasdair knows that and offered anyways because somehow it feels worse not to have Arthur under his roof. Francis would be glad to have him. He would come out of the bedroom in the morning to find Arthur tucked into their kitchen nook and smile wide enough to hurt. He would kiss Alasdair’s neck to thank him silently for whatever bargain he’d made to bring Arthur home. Even if he told him so, and tried to explain, Arthur would not believe him.

“Aye.” He will try anyways. “Across from ours.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches and he breathes an angry huff, looking like he is of a mind to storm off. The only thing that stays him might very well be that Alasdair is standing so close that he’d have to shove him aside to leave.

“Where are you staying?” Alasdair asks, though he’s starting to suspect he already knows the answer.

“I’m not.” Arthur snaps.

Alasdair holds his ground, scowling right back until Arthur’s temper begins to flag.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he laments, bringing up a hand to press against his forehead and dragging it down to his eyes.

“Why did you?” Alasdair presses.

Arthur shakes his head lightly and for once Alasdair lets it be.

“You can’t be driving.” He tries for reason. “And you’ll not find a room this late, the inn’s booked full. You could call—” he tries to think of anyone Arthur would trust enough to impose on and comes up short. “—someone. I’ll call someone for you if you’re set on being stubborn.”

Arthur’s hand is still covering his eyes, but he is very obviously grinding his jaw.

“Or you could stay.” Alasdair finishes brusquely. “And come upstairs to sleep in the spare room.” Your room, he wishes he could say still.

Arthur exhales and drags his hand down roughly to cover his mouth instead. He looks up at Alasdair through the mess of his fringe for a long moment before he speaks.

“I haven’t been drinking,” he says and sounds like he is only trying to himself not to stay.

“If you stay, you’ll want to.”

That at least makes Arthur snort.

“Sure,” he agrees, and Alasdair can suddenly picture him years younger and curled into the sunken couch upstairs, a hot toddy held in his hands.

But this isn’t the Arthur he remembers. He looks tired, suddenly, and speaks with a gravity that begs no argument.

“I left for a reason.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Arthur raises his chin in a challenge.

They will have to have it out. If not now, then later. They will have to talk and figure things out if they have any hope of keeping the peace long enough to see the wedding out. For Francis’ sake he would rather it be now. For Arthur, he can be patient.

“Why, then?”

Arthur searches his face, chewing on his lower lip like he is struggling to find the words to parry along the confrontation he wanted.

“Because I couldn’t…” he tries, and sighs like he is frustrated with himself. “I don’t want this. I don’t know if I can want this. And I do not know who I am to you and what my place in your life is if we’re not fucking.”

Alasdair swallows back his anger and counts to ten in his mind.

This is the effect of having taken all that Arthur offered before he knew any better and questioned his motives. It is all so clear in hindsight that it chaffs against his pride that he could be so blind, once. There is equal blame to place on Arthur for his silence— for running away— and every opportunity he let pass without making himself known. Alasdair could have loved him better, would have if only Arthur had told him how. Never fucked him at all, for all that matters. Has never even kissed him like he deserved to be. And now there is another person to consider and half a decade of missed opportunities to work through.

Every word they speak now will carry the consequences of their past omissions, so Alasdair does not stop to consider his words and says what he wishes he has told Arthur years ago instead.

“You are family,” he declares and shakes his head roughly once before Arthur can interrupt him. “Whether you stay or leave. This place is yours, a third of it, a half. Whatever you will claim of it is yours to keep. And you are family. To Francis, to me. As much as Sean and Dai could ever be; more, for who you are to us. To both of us.”

Arthur’s eyes on him are intent.

“Do you really believe that?” he asks, and Alasdair has always known deep down that before he is anything else, Arthur is a cynic that wants to be proven wrong.

“Is it so hard to believe?”

The question hangs in the air for a beat too long. Arthur drops his gaze.

“What will you tell Francis?”

Alasdair grunts.

“That if he had time enough to orchestrate this while running me ragged he could have spared a moment to wash the bedding in the guest room.”

That startles a huff of laughter out of Arthur, but it sounds a little wet. One of his hands is back, hovering near his lips in an old nervous gesture.

Alasdair has never been good with words. He resorts to his hands instead and buries one deep into the roots of Arthur’s hair. It feels thicker than it looks and is coarser than Francis’; a shade closer to sand than gold.

He would not be surprised to find the bedsheets in the guest bedroom washed and pressed, all the edges tucked neatly under the corners of the mattress the way Francis never makes their own bed. There is no hurry, though. He’ll wash them himself if he needs to and keep Arthur company while the washing machine makes a racket in the kitchen, spinning through the dry cycle. If the sheets come out damp he’ll spare Arthur half of theirs and the thick, woollen blanket they only pull down from the cupboard in the winter. For now, he lets himself relearn Arthur’s warmth with his nose buried in his temple and thinks in numbers. Six more hours until morning. Three cups of coffee over breakfast in three mismatched mugs. One more night before his wedding and ahead of that a lifetime worth its weight in copper.

#day 2 #fic #from the tags:#i would imagine that alasdair is the kind of mind to value copper over gold #someone prompted me to write infidelity a while back and it morphed into polyamory

25 notes · View notes

scotengweek · 1 year

Text

When your family is the last thing that is worth anything to you, even when you are worth nothing to them anymore, can you bear the consequences of your actions nonetheless?

ScotEng week. Day 2. Drama.

#day 2 #from their tags: platonic #moodboard #thank you for participating! ♥️

27 notes · View notes

scotengweek · 1 year

Text

Run

Day 1 of ScotEng week 2023

Comedy // run, laughter, whiskey // “For fucks sake!”

[I have friends with stellar comedic timing who can really land a punch when they write! Sadly, I share no such talent, so I went with a romcom setting. Originally, I had intended this first submission to be my longfic A Romantic Comedy Set In Mull but every time I post a snippet I am cursed to several months of harried hustling so here we have it, an out-take that didn’t make the final draft.]

-------

Arthur’s chest heaves with a gasp for breath and Alasdair’s hand over his mouth presses tighter over his lips.

“Hush,” he bids, orders, and does not seem to think he’d do better to be silent as well. Arthur shifts his jaw and jabs him in the stomach.

“Hush,” Alasdair repeats, firmer, and Arthur hasn’t the use of his mouth to call him a hypocrite because for all that Alasdair is playing at stern, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes are mirthful.

He’ll have smile lines, Arthur thinks then. They will deepen as he ages; his eyes will narrow with joy. Alasdair’s father had a thick head of hair well into his last years, as did his mother, and in a few years longer Alasdair’s will be brushed with the same silver as theirs. He will be thick and broad and aching in the mornings. He’s always had a good temperament for age, the crabby bastard. It’ll suit him better when his eyebrows are as thick as the hair in his ears. Arthur has the sudden image in his mind of an old man with Alasdair’s mismatched eyes, clouded with age, harrumphing at something he’s misheard over the radio and he has to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep laughing.

The wall behind him is so cold that it feels damp even through the layers he’s wearing. It doesn’t help one bit that he is also soaked to the bone. Alasdair though, somehow, feels warm, pressed against him and breathing hard. Any other time and his mind would be in the gutter, hurried along by the whiskey still hot in his veins, and it very nearly is despite the smell of mildew and dust and the way his socks squelch when he shifts his weight. As it stands…

Down the narrow corridor, a bend away from where they are hiding in what Arthur is sure could be a confessional if it weren’t for the fact that he is convinced those are stand-alone and wood-carved, a chorus of voices rise in prayer. Alasdair squirms, and Arthur hopes the way he pats Alasdair’s side is reassuring enough without being condescending. It must be good enough, if Alasdair suddenly trusts him enough not to burst out laughing again when he softens his grip on Arthur’s face.

“A wedding,” Arthur mouths, too quiet even to be a whisper. His cheeks hurt from trying to hold back his smile.

“Wheesht, you.” Alasdair looks like Arthur’s speaking privileges could be revoked if he doesn’t tread carefully. Hypocrite, he’s censuring Arthur loud enough that his voice bounces a little off the walls. He also looks mortified enough without Arthur having to rub it in.

Yet again, Arthur doesn’t make it a habit to let things be. Not with Alasdair.

“You’ve gone and made us crash a wedding,” he is trying not to laugh, he is, but he can’t help it if his lips keep twitching and his feet bounce in place to compensate for Alasdair’s weight and work through some of the adrenaline and mirth still coursing through him.

“Arthur!” he’s warned. It's hard to take seriously when Alasdair's voice is tight with held-back laughter. “For fuck’s sake, Arthur.”

“You daft ba—” And there go his talking privileges, Alasdair’s hand is back.

Alasdair buries his face in Arthur’s shoulder and his entire body shakes with contained laughter. He knocks his knee into the soft flesh of Arthur’s thigh to protest him finally giving in to the childish impulse of sticking out his tongue to lick the palm muzzling him. He tastes like sweat and a little like rainwater. Arthur can feel the softened edges of his callouses and the grooves of his life line on his tongue. He’ll have smile lines, Arthur thinks again. He already does.

He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the stone, laughter simmering into a placid contentment in his chest. Alasdair’s body shivers with a deep sigh before he falls still as well and outside the rain begins to patter off.

They wouldn’t know. There are no windows facing out into the world in this dusty wing of the country kirk, only two arches which face the main body of the building, out of view from where they cower. It had been Alasdair’s idea to slip out the back and leave the rest of their mismatched family behind to head for a walk through the country. It had also been his assurance about the weather that had seen them both caught in nothing but woollen jumpers and light coats out under a sudden Spring shower an hour away from shelter. They’d come up to the kirk at a sprint from the back and missed the cars parked out front, the murmur of voices clouded by the rain until it had been too late, and they had come crashing through a heavy door into the alcove. Pure luck had it so the music swelled when the door crashed into the wall, muffled by a rolled up carpet shoved aside for storage and the bride’s march down the alley.

The last time Arthur was at a wedding he could barely see over the pew without having to strain his calves; not quite standing on the tips of his toes but enough that it had bent the shiny leather of his shoes much to his mother’s chagrin. He wonders absently how long they last, if they stretch over hours or if it had been a childish dilation of time that had made the wedding feel endless and droning. The words they can overhear seem vaguely familiar. Arthur had never been one for mass. Alasdair was, once, as a child because he liked to hold his grandmother’s hand. This is something that Arthur knows about him in the way you know the childhood of someone who speaks little about it. It had come up only once at breakfast after a romp in the sheets. Arthur had been killing time, talking about everything and nothing while Alasdair sipped on his coffee, wondering whether they’d be back in bed before midday or if Alasdair was bound to slip away after a shower. They hadn’t been together then anymore than they are now, but Alasdair had hummed and interrupted Arthur’s steady words to say that he’d been raised catholic in words other than that. If Arthur strained he might be able to remember what had brought the confession on, if he had been talking about family or religion or what his grandmother had liked to cook best before his mother had carted him three counties away into the city and he never say her again.

It feels like it matters now, that Arthur know this about him, and he softens his body to let Alasdair rest more easily against him. The hand over his mouth feels like a formality. He breathes gently against it and does not shrug it off for the sake of Alasdair’s nose pressed into the bend of his jaw. When it does slip away from his mouth it feels easy the way being alone with Alasdair these days does.

When Alasdair speaks it is at once barely audible and the only thing Arthur can hear.

“Would you marry me?”

There is no urgency to the question, or expectation. It is just a thought given breath. It is how Alasdair asks anything of him, rarely as he does.

“I could, I think,” Arthur sounds the words against nothing, then turns to disturb Alasdair’s damp hair with his cheek. His hands find Alasdair’s hips, his fingers span over his lower back, and he wonders how he hadn’t realised that Alasdair’s arm is wrapped around his waist.

“Yes,” he breathes like a confidence. It is easy, it costs him nothing. It earns him the lines on Alasdair’s face when he smiles.

Alasdair turns his face back into his shoulder and does not hold him any tighter. He shakes again, and for a horrifying moment Arthur thinks that this might be the first time he sees him cry.

An aborted snort quickly disabuses him of the motion and it’s his turn to squirm and jab at him to be silent, tightening his lips and biting down to keep himself from laughing as well. Alasdair wrestles him to regain the upper hand, Arthur fists his jumper to get at the warm skin beneath with ice-cold fingers, lips brushing close in what is almost a kiss. They are off-kilter, however, and clumsy in their height difference and the weight of their soggy clothes. They both stumble one step to Arthur’s left. Their shoulders knock into something.

A sconce, done poorly by lack of care, detaches from the wall and crashes to the ground.

The organist in the next room misses a chord and the officiant’s voice skips over the last words of the verse he’s reciting. Some voices are raised at a whisper that echoes questions into the alcove that should be empty and isn’t. Arthur and Alasdair both freeze and then helplessly break down into the poorly disguised laughter of the guilty.

Before they can be well and truly caught, Arthur lets Alasdair take his hand and runs.

#fic #day 1

43 notes · View notes